


Moment of relief

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [75]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: False relief in dreams mean nothing to reality.Thankfully.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [75]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Moment of relief

The stuffy air shivered, a silent intake of breath, and Maxwell suddenly blinked awake.

It took a moment, swirling disjointed thoughts, half memories, and the beefalo fur bedding curled tight in his gloved hands as the former Nightmare King stared up at the darkened ceiling, getting his shaky breath back as reality fell back into place around him. There was a hint of chill, very faint, and the near complete darkness told of the lack of a lit fire outside; it must be quite late, everyone retired to bed, camp entirely silent in rest.

The dream that he had awoken from, thick and heady and still clinging to his dizzy mind, kept Maxwell still, quiet. It stayed heavy on him, atop his chest and skull, encased like a fog cloud, and every breath rattled in a way that jarred loose reality and subconscious imagination, shook the leftovers away, back into the mirages sleep so seemed to enjoy gracing him with. 

The rest had not left much to be grateful for, only a half baked horror dream and this inner fatigue to grace and settle and nip and gnaw at his limbs, his very bones. As wakefulness grew more prevalent Maxwell carefully sat himself up, slow and steady, blinking through the dark of the stuffy tent, blinking through the even more so clustered crowd of wavering dream images and memory, a half remembered state to settle in his hands and make his very fingers ache.

It went to his chest too, filled it thickly enough for him to have to swallow, to inhale a shaky attempt at balance and near whistle it out in the ensuing exhale, and yet half images and visions still graced him, memories never real to begin with as the dream, as the _nightmare_ settled with a far well remembered surety.

This was one of those Maxwell would not be able to forget, or even ignore, in the morning. He knew the signs, could feel them, a cradled too tight ache in his chest, the ensuing leftover flags of dream fogged emotion and reaction, and the aches in his fingers spread, drifted in a slow rolling blister cloud that went in and settled right to his chest, made his already shaky breathing even worse off than before.

There was stirring, faint and shallow, by his side as Maxwell took in his strained breaths, working to stabilize even as the dark and dream fog and his own blank mentality fell into step before each other, and it had him close his eyes for a brief moment.

But the dark of his eyelids had him seeing a flash image, or flash almost touch, a buzzing sense of pressure to his chest, legs and arms and already aching head. It settled worse within his lungs and further below to his gut, a nauseating twist that brought more fog, more thick mist, more dizzying imbalances.

For the life of him, Maxwell felt as if he was in the wrong spot, the wrong time; his dream senses, still so thickly lingering, felt as if misplaced, set just so to the wrong direction.

A part of him, still layered in half asleep understanding, felt as if he shouldn't have woken up at all.

Still, the shifting of the bedding and brief heaved sigh of air, stuffing up the tent air even more so no doubt, had Maxwell blink open his eyes, night darkness twisting and turning in his vision before lightening up ever so slowly.

The silhouette beside him was rubbing his eyes, tangled dark hair a greasy mess of knots and twists and turns, and he held himself in the slight tipping way of one just awakening from deep, unbothered sleep.

A nibbling worm of discomforting shame graced him, before Maxwell squashed it down, turned his gaze away, and he was awake now, yes, even with the dream still here, still haunting him so brazenly.

It was one of those that would never leave, he knew, and the rest of the night was shot now, shot with insomnia and worry and paranoia and the low shuffling sounds of the rest of the world outside the tent that him and the man he shared his sleeping space with resided within.

Wilson was such a light sleeper.

"....Max?" His partner's voice was layered over with that sleep exhaustion, only a hint of that automatic alertness that had woken him in the first place, but with Maxwell being the only thing out of place within the tent it was obvious that there had been no threat in the first place. It was what Maxwell so assumed; he's been shaken awake before, night hound attacks or sudden giants or some other such nonsense, and Wilson was always one of the first to be up and alert when that happened.

A wandering hand tapped him on the arm, sluggish movement, before giving him instead a tired fond pat on the shoulder as Higgsbury put his head into his other hand, another sleepy sigh exhaled out of him as his silhouette wobbled. It was later than usual, especially with no light outside the tent, and Maxwell wavered a moment, swallowed down the leftover vile film from the dream as best as he could.

It had not frightened him, of course, nor had it set him on edge. It was just…

...just a bit much, he supposed.

The other man's clawed hand gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Wilson gave himself a small shake, seemed to be trying to wake himself up a bit more as Maxwell felt his words twist and turn and die on his tongue, as whatever excuse he had seemed to wither with his will. In the wake of the dream it didn't quite seem worth it, not really.

 _Not ever_ , wiggled some unwanted dream memory, and he grit his jaw, squashed the thought like some disgusting worm under the heel of his shoe, though it left a foul taste in its wake nonetheless. 

It wasn't a lot, what it had left and instilled in him, so suddenly waking from that fog and being here instead, and whatever feeling filling his chest that it had left behind was flooding with more persistence than his exhausted frame of mind wished to handle.

He should, of course, just turn back to laying down, close his eyes and resign himself to the darkness for the last few hours. Perhaps even get up early, slip from the tent with less intent to awaken anyone, get his day going earlier than usual.

Not quite an appealing venture, but it would perhaps be better off than fighting in vain to just _fall back asleep._

Then again, perhaps the night would just grant him more dreams, _nightmares_ , if he so succeeded. Experience set his teeth on edge, the last of the sleep stripped away in favor for fatigue, and Maxwell swayed, fingers still achingly numb, chest overfilled with the stains the dream itself had left with him, its mark.

It had just been...just been a bit much, and neither of his options tempted him one way or another, not right now.

A bit overwhelming, what the dream had left him, this sense of loss.

It wasn't what he usually did, giving in to some spontaneous action, not anymore anyway, not after the Throne and its many, many, _many_ consequences, but Maxwell looked upon the other man for only a moment more.

Before leaning a bit, a slight shift that hopefully gave Higgsbury a minor warning, and then he was leaned heavily against the other man, already turned his head to press against the space between shoulder and neck, already pulling his arms about to wrap around and grab to the loose undershirt the other man wore. His hands did not shake, he convinced himself, eyes squeezed shut and ever breath a rattle on a wheeze and worse than he knew it should be, and Wilson was always that warm point in the universe, in the entire reality of being that he found himself already relaxing by holding on, bit by bit.

Of course, the tense posture, moment of frozen shock didn't escape his notice, but Maxwell tried to not let that stop him; whatever the dream had left in him silently called, wailed, _shrieked_ for something that he couldn't quite visualize, and so that which he turned to instead would always be Wilson.

Thankfully the unwelcome surprise didn't last long, not with how the shivers seemed to have taken to Maxwell's spine, drawing his shoulders tight and letting his hands curl, hold on even tighter as his chest just continued to _ache_ , and dull clawed hands went around his back, arms wrapping around him and pulling him a bit closer in answer.

"...Nightmare?"

The sleep wasn't as prevalent, wasn't as thick, only a distracted tired hue to entangle with a much more focused tone, but Maxwell did not give much of an answer back; his throat felt choked full, that horrid swelling feeling in his chest, flooded out and filling wrong, had risen too far for him to ever want to explain or excuse himself.

Wilson was warm, warm and stuffy and stinking as much as the bedding and tent itself, this human and wilderness smell, and he buried himself against it for some sort of mental leverage, mental anchoring; the dream left no threat, it did not hurt him, _it had not scared him_ , and Maxwell just...he just needed a moment.

It was relief, he realized slowly, noticed belatedly. It was relief that had filled his chest to the brim, was choking him up and rattling his lungs, made his curled fingers claw instead, hold tight and draw his legs up ever so slightly, as if to curl tight and hold on even tighter.

Relief threatened to crash over him and draw him thin, this utter sense of something that had almost escaped him, almost been taken away, and it made him cling tighter to what his dream, his _nightmare_ had tried to assure him was long gone.

There had been relief in there, too, an acknowledgement, a sort of _freedom_ even, but it was reassurance that had him here, in the waking world, arms firm and solid around him and an answering back to his silent plea to just feel a bit of comfort right now.

He didn't need it, of course not, _no_ , Maxwell knew he believed that well enough, but it was...it was well appreciated.

It made the dream less appealing; had he awoken alone, he knew, it would have been a much more tempting memory.

Be that as it may, right now all he cared for was holding him tight, silent and quiet and letting him wheeze his shivering breaths and calm from the flood of utter knowledge that the dream had not, in fact, been right. It would stick with him, stick to his limbs and deep of his constricted chest and already so strained mind, but it was incredibly reassuring to be held and to have the fog fade away under the guidance of another who acted to care enough.

Not enough credit to Higgsbury, of course, not nearly enough, but Maxwell had his eyes closed and his whistling breath had eased and his chest was less full now, a different relief to take the dreams and replace it. There had been warmth, in his dream, but this was better.

There had been an end, to his dream, but this was…it was so very much better.

"...You want to talk about it?" One of Wilson's hands had traveled up from his back, was now brushing faint touch to the nape of his neck, dipping to press against his spine, fiddle with the collar of his shirt, and it was such a simple thing, such a simple movement yet it still made Maxwell let out a whistling little sigh, let it strain from his throat, and gain back enough to balance back out.

"No..."

His curt answer was softened by how quiet he was, mumbled against his partners warm skin, breath warmed shirt, and he felt Wilson give a shallow nod, acknowledgement and not even a pause in his dull claws trailing against his back. 

His sense of relief was lapping back now, not near as overwhelming, washed out and draining the dreams own jaded memories, and the fog had been sheared away enough for him to let himself indulge in this act.

The nightmare had not granted him that, no matter how tempting or freeing or even _relieving_ it had all left, what sort of impression it had now left upon him and would stay for awhile yet.

He had Wilson, and that was all Maxwell allowed himself to care for right here, right now.


End file.
